“Second son,” he says. Jamie’s expression seems darker, as if a shadow just crossed his face, and there’s an unfamiliar flatness in his tone that raises my awareness. I’m very quick to observe a person’s facial or vocal changes, but making sense of those shifts is a struggle. It takes courage to ask for help understanding them. I’m not quite there with him yet.

I don’t know exactly what’s wrong, only that something is. So I give him what often makes me feel better. A firm hand squeeze of reassurance. My fingers brush over his healing knuckles.

“The salve’s helping?” I ask.

Jamie peers down at our hands clasped together, a notch between his brows. “Pardon me? Oh. Yes. Very much. I have to wash and sanitize them so often at work, they dry out, and I’ve never found something that works this well. Thank you again.”

“I’m glad. And you’re welcome.”

“Sorry.” He loosens his grip on my hand. “I hadn’t realized I was still holding your—”

“That’s okay.” I tangle our fingers tight again. “Besides, we should practice. For . . . plausibility’s sake.”

“Plausibility.” When his eyes meet mine, the shadow darkening his expression is gone, and an almost smile slips out. “Right.”

—

“This is the best pho I’ve ever had.” I swallow a mouthful of rice noodles, hoping I’m subtle as I navigate around the vegetables.

Jamie makes a hum of agreement as he ladles broth past his lips.

Which I definitely don’t watch.

In too great detail.

He just looks so good in here, under ideal lighting for a chiaroscuro sketch. My hands itch for my charcoals as inspiration nags my brain, begging to be drawn. I shove the impulse back in a mental closet already brimming with too many Jamie items. His kisses. His addicting scent. His warm, solid grip when we hold hands. The way light plays on his features and makes his eyes glow. I can’t crack open that door and safely pick even one of those things. It’ll send an avalanche raining down on me, and when I dig myself out, I’m not going to like what I see—how many things I actually do like about Jamie Nary a Wrinkle in His Pants Westenberg, even if he talks like he’s on Jeopardy! and silently judges me for straining my pancreas with too much sugar.

Acknowledging how much I like Jamie is a risk I can’t afford to take.

So I throw a shoulder into that mental closet, lock it up, and move on. After a sip of my lemonade, I tell him, “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place before.”

“Well-kept secret,” he says. As he sets down his spoon, his eyes fasten on my bowl, and I know I’m busted. “You’re not eating your vegetables. Do they not taste right to you?”